Author: Zhang Xiaoping
When I was young, I lived with my parents, my younger brother, and my grandmother. My parents were often busy with work, so my grandmother was the one who raised me with warmth and care. She was always there, ensuring that I was well-fed and loved. One of my fondest memories of her was the way she prepared food for me, especially when I had to go to school.
Each morning, she would wake up early to cook something special for me, carefully packing my lunch so I would have a delicious meal to enjoy. The food she made was always filled with love, and I looked forward to it every day. She knew exactly what I liked, and she would often surprise me with my favorite dishes. Her cooking became a symbol of her love and care, something I cherished deeply.
When I grew older, I had to move away for school. In China, I stayed in a hostel and could only return home on Friday nights. I always counted down the days until the weekend because I knew that my grandmother would be waiting for me with a warm smile and a table full of home-cooked meals. She made sure to cook different dishes each time, wanting me to enjoy a variety of flavors and feel the warmth of home.
Sunday evenings were always bittersweet. As I prepared to return to school, my grandmother would lovingly pack food for me to bring back. She knew that I liked to share with my classmates, so she made extra, ensuring that I had enough to spread the warmth of her cooking with my friends. Even when I was away, I could feel her presence through the meals she prepared.
Her love was not expressed in grand gestures or fancy words but in the simple, everyday moments—the meals she cooked, the way she worried about me, and the joy in her eyes when I came home. Looking back, I realize how much those moments shaped me, filling my childhood with warmth and love.
Though time has passed, and I have grown, the memory of my grandmother’s love remains in my heart, wrapped in the scent of her cooking and the warmth of her embrace. It is a love that never fades, a love that will stay with me forever.
She passed away in 2016, and though I try to recreate her dishes, the taste is never quite the same. No matter how closely I follow her recipes, there is something special, something irreplaceable about the way she cooked. Perhaps it was her touch, her love, or the countless years of care she poured into each meal. But even though the flavors may not be identical, the memories remain just as strong, reminding me of her unwavering love every time I cook.
